Oftentimes, poets who feel inadequate excel in writing melancholic poetry – whose words weigh so heavily upon those so speechless of their own horror; yet how is it, that they fail to see how drenched in success they are – in their soaking soggy mess of failure?
So many people trying to recreate Plath’s words, some others trying to follow in her footsteps to leave another legacy – and yet in her self-perceived insignificance despite her successes, i see mine already in the grave beneath her grave.
Could it be, simply because, I am dead in this life? Of course, the best i could hope and rationalise, ’twas presumably because i have lived so gloriously in revelry and excess of a different era, century, world –
if not, tell me – will the day i start to truly live ever come?